Learning Respect
by SweetWritingIsMyLife
Summary: John is fed up with Sam's recent attitude problems. He decides to send him to Mark Reed, a seasoned hunter known for training youths, getting them into shape, and helping to take care of their behavioral issues. His methods are a little bit... unconventional, however, leaving Sam shaped up, but bent a bit out of shape in the process. Teenchesters. Sam is 15 Dean is 19
1. Prologue

**A/N: This chapter is especially short, as it's just a prologue. Other chapters will be longer, though still kind of short, but they should come out fairly often.**

**Warnings for this chapter: Bleeped swearing**

"Samuel Winchester, you will shut your mouth if you know what's good for you, you hear me?" A fight was underway at the Winchester house, meaning Sam and John were shouting at each other without listening, and Dean was trying (and failing) to get them to shut up for a few moments. A loud crash resounded through the house. It was just an empty beer bottle hitting the wall, but it was effective in shutting off all voices. John spoke up again.

"Sam, you have a severe attitude problem and you need a significant amount of training," the man's voice was quiet now, deadly. It left no room for argument. "Mark Reed is highly qualified to fix both of those issues. I am fed up with trying to put up with your s***. I have already been in contact with him, and he is expecting you in three days. It will take us two days to get to his house, therefore we are leaving first thing tomorrow morning. Am I understood?" Sam glared harshly at his father, and if looks could kill, well let's be honest, they'd both be toast by now.

"I asked you a question, Sam," John warned. Sam retreated angrily to his and Dean's shared room without reply, slamming the door for extra emphasis. Dean followed to try smoothing things over.

'It's not fair Dean," Sam groaned, flopping onto his bed.

"Look, ah, Sammy," Dean cleared his throat. "I know this sucks, and it doesn't feel fair, but Dad really just wants the best for you. He wants to protect you, and give you a way to protect yourself. Because of-"

"What Dean," Sam raised his eyebrows. "Because of what's out there?"

"Exactly," Dean nodded.

"Yeah, well sometimes I wish we didn't know what was out there," Sam sighed. "I wish we could have a normal life."

"Well, we do, so we can't," Dean deadpanned. "So suck it up, and pack your stuff for the d*** class, alright?"

"Fine," Sam growled.

"Good," Came Dean's terse reply. In less than two hours, Sam found himself in the backseat of the Impala, on his way to what he assumed would be the worst week of his life. He had no idea.


	2. Meeting the Master

**A/N: I got very excited about this story, and posted the first chapter while I was still working on my Spiderman fanfic, sooo it's been a while. I'll uh, try to be a little faster with updates, but no promises, unfortunately. Especially because I'm ****_still_**** working on that Spiderman fanfic. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Warnings: Bleeped swears**

Sam's first impression of Mark Reed? Commanding. Polite, but stiff. Exactly the type of person his dad would like. He was right, of course. His dad took to the man like a fish to water. They shared hunting stories until long into the night, drank beer together, and laughed, and Sam felt like it wasn't fair that his dad got to have such a great time at his expense. Dean, to his credit, spent the night doing whatever Sam wanted to do. Just because he agreed with their dad that Sam could use some more training, and that this Mark guy seemed to be the answer to all of their problems, he understood how Sam felt. Besides, Sam had never been away from Dean for longer than a day unless he was at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's. Sam was thankful to be able to glean as much Dean time as possible before their separation. Not that he would admit that he was going to miss him, of course. He had a reputation of independence to keep up after all.

Mark was polite enough. That is until Dean and Dad left. As soon as the Impala was out of sight of the house, he turned on Sam.

"Listen closely Samuel," he instructed. "Because I am about to lay out the rules of my house and my training program. I am only going to give you these rules once. Any deviance from these rules, blatant disregard or otherwise, will result in swift and harsh punishment. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Sam hates the way his voice seems to catch in his throat.

"Yes _sir_," Mark corrected. "That is the first rule. Every response to every question, every comment, every question, every sentence that comes out of your mouth will be followed by the title, sir."

"Yes sir," Sam corrected himself, not in the mood to pick a fight.

"Rule number two, you speak only when given permission. When given instruction, you follow orders without question. If I ask you to jump, you jump no questions asked. If you don't jump high enough, I'll be sure to let you know and you can do it again. All body language will be appropriate and respectful. Shrugging, eye-rolling, sighing, vulgar gestures and anything similar will not be tolerated. You are not to _ever _raise your voice at me. There is to be no alcohol or drug consumption, and no smoking. Cell phone use is strictly prohibited except in the event of an emergency whereupon emergency services must be contacted. All punishments will be taken with dignity, and all criticism will be taken humbly. The proper response to criticism is 'yes sir,' and 'thank you, sir'. There is a fence surrounding this property. You will not cross it. You will keep every area of the house and property tidy. Every complaint that I hear coming out of your mouth whether meant for my ears or not, will lead to a doubling of the exercise. Outside of sparring, if you raise a hand against me, if you so much as touch me with harmful intent, you will be punished. Swearing will not be tolerated. You may not do anything without first receiving permission from me. Am I making myself quite clear?"

"Yes, sir," Sam responded, mind spinning a little with the rush of information.

"Good," he nodded. "Take your bags upstairs to the first room on the right, and go straight to bed. I will wake you at 4:00 sharp tomorrow, whereupon you will have exactly five minutes to get up, dress, make your bed, and be downstairs in the dining room."

"Yes sir," Sam almost had the urge to salute the man on his way up, but squashed it down lest it be interpreted as disrespect. Before crawling into bed, he checked his phone, finding a text message from Dean.

_Hope ur settling in all right, dude. See u in a week._ Sam responded, knowing this would officially be his last contact with his brother until they saw each other again.

_Got all unpacked, not sure I quite feel settled yet tho. Marks a hard-a**, so this is the last time I get to text u all week. Im not allowed to b on my phone._

_Ok, well good luck. Try and learn something. _

_Sure_

Sam shut his phone, placing it in his duffle and crawling under the covers of his bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing sleep to come. 4:00 would come early.


	3. Monday

**A/N: I sheepishly bring you a new chapter, with no excuses for the wait, lol. **

**Warnings: bleeped swearing, and a bit of questionable treatment of a minor.**

4:00 certainly did come early, and loudly. Mark shouted from downstairs that he was to get up, get ready, and bring his phone down with him when he came for breakfast. Sam was proud of himself when he made it to the dining room in four minutes. He gave his phone to Mark, who was seated at the head of the table, then sat at the other place setting.

"Did I give you permission to sit, Samuel?" Mark questioned sternly. Sam stood immediately.

"No sir," he didn't want to start a fight over something so small so early in the morning. Even if it was stupid. "May I sit, sir?"

"Not anymore," was Mark's reply. "You just lost that privilege. You can eat standing up this morning."

"What?" Sam's disbelief covered his face.

"Half breakfast for questioning me," Mark spoke as though that sentence was perfectly ordinary. Sam, In order to keep from losing rights to _all_ of his breakfast, snapped his mouth shut. "Grab one slice of bacon and one slice of toast." Sam obeyed, depositing the items on his plate.

"May I eat, sir?" Sam hoped he was allowed that question.

"Yes," Mark picked up his phone, flipping the screen open. He began scrolling through the phone, his actions causing Sam to hold his breath in anticipation. If the man opened his text history, he would see that there had been an exchange between Sam and his brother. Sam's bacon was suddenly tasteless, and his toast, which had no condiments on it in the first place, was dry and stuck in his throat. It wasn't long before Mark placed the phone on the table and methodically began eating his eggs. The silence was worse than shouting.

Sam did as he was instructed to clean up from breakfast, and then followed the older hunter outside.

"Ten minutes, Samuel," Mark growled once they reached the training ground. "It took ten minutes before you blatantly disobeyed me. First, you used your cell phone. You sent a text message in which you used a swear word. On top of that, your message was completely disrespectful. What was it you said? 'Mark's a hard-a**?' Me giving you a list of rules is not hard-a**. I can show you hard-a** if you'd like." In a lightning-quick motion, his fist flew out and caught Sam on the side of the mouth. "You are here to learn respect, and you will learn it," was all he said. After that, training started. A five-mile run was followed by a hundred push-ups with no break in between. By the end of the push-ups, Sam collapsed on the ground in exhaustion.

"Get up, Samuel," Mark commanded. "Trust me. By the end of this week, a little run and a few push-ups will be nothing." Sam did as he was told the entire day. He fired bullets at targets until his arm wanted to fall off, dug a 6-foot deep trench that was large enough to bury a giant in, and carved wooden stakes until his hands were blistered and bleeding. Lunch, if you could call it that, consisted of an apple and a slice of stale bread. He wasn't given dinner. After dark, they went inside where Sam researched exorcisms and devil traps until his eyes swam. It was after midnight by the time Sam was allowed to go to bed. The last thing Mark told him was to go straight to sleep because today had been easy and tomorrow would be much harder. Mark needn't have worried. Sam was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.


	4. Tuesday

**A/N: This chapter is longer, and things get pretty serious in this one.**

**Warnings: bleeped swearing and mistreatment of a minor**

The next morning, Sam was late for breakfast. He hadn't meant to be, he was just moving slower than usual due to the soreness of his muscles and his deep, utter exhaustion. All of that paired with no breakfast, and an extra mile added to his six-mile run, and he found himself burning with resentment towards the grizzled hunter. After his run, he lashed out. First, he crossed his arms and refused to move on to his next task. He'd train some more once he had some real food. When Mark refused, he complained about how unfair things were, how he was being mistreated, how his brother and father would be angrier than him even once they found out.

That was when Mark attacked him. Well-versed in fighting, he was stronger and more agile than Sam. Not that Sam didn't fight back, of course. His instincts kicked in and he defended himself as best as possible, even getting in a few offensive blows. He was holding his own pretty well, when a particularly nasty blow made contact with the side of his head and he fell, out cold before he reached the ground.

When he came to, he was on the ground, wrists and ankles tied together. Mark was looming over him, circling like a vulture.

"What did I tell you would happen if you broke my rules, Samuel?" his voice was dark, but eerily calm. Sam kept his mouth shut resolutely, refusing to make eye contact with the man. "I would like an answer to my question, Samuel." At this, Sam made eye contact, glaring at the man with as much fury as he could muster.

"F*** you," he spat.

"Excuse me?" Mark reached down, gripping the front of Sam's shirt tightly to lift him up until their noses were nearly touching. "How about watching your tongue, boy?" Hot breath filtered over Sam's face, smelling of stale coffee. He threw him back onto the hard ground, and landed a stray kick into his ribcage, driving a sharp cough from Sam's lungs. Sensing the impending beating, Sam realized too late just how big of a mistake he had made.

"S-sorry sir," Sam tried smoothing things over.

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't begin to fix things," Mark growled, kicking him again. "You have to learn respect, that's why you're here. You're not here to learn how to shoot, or dig trenches, or speak perfect Latin. You're here to learn respect, and how to follow your d**n orders without question."

"Yes, sir. I'll work on that," Sam _really _hoped he could avoid whatever was in store for him.

"Oh, trust me, I know you will," Mark agreed. "For now, shut your mouth so you can take your punishment like a man." Mark grabbed his arm, dragging him over to a post that was set deep into the ground. He lifted the boy's arms up, securing them onto a hook in the post, effectively holding Sam in an upright position, his arms bearing most of his weight.

The punishment began without warning. Mark's fists flew into Sam's midsection at an absolutely horrific pace, creating bruises that were sure to last, and, as a few cracking sounds seemed to imply, fractured ribs. Two minutes later, the man was barely out of breath. He stopped hitting Sam and left, only to return, moments later, with a long, thin whip. The leather flew through the air, striking Sam's back, and drawing an unwitting scream from his lips. Fire spread from the contact and sent electricity tingling down his spine. After ten lashes, he could feel blood, warm and sticky, ooze down his back. Twenty lashes, and he was crying silent tears. Forty had him sobbing aloud, begging ashamedly for mercy. At eighty, his vision was fading in and out, and by one hundred, he was unconscious, head dropped forward. It was only then that Mark stopped, deeming his punishment sufficient.

It was five minutes before Sam roused, and waves of pain almost dragged him back under. He stayed awake on pure determination alone. At his awakening, Mark cut his feet loose, then cut the rope securing his wrists to both each other and the post. Sam collapsed onto his hands and knees and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach.

"Stand up," Mark commanded as soon as he was finished. He complied, breathing shallowly as pain and dizziness threatened to pull him under again. "Go inside and start memorizing exorcisms. You have permission to sit, but I better not see any of your blood on my upholstery, understand?"

"Yes, sir." The walk to the house was awful, and Sam almost gave up a few times. The only thing keeping him on his feet and moving forward was the thought of more punishment. Inside, he sat gingerly on a straight-backed wooden chair, careful to avoid touching his back to the chair. By the time Mark came into the room to stop him, his head was pounding.

"Stand at your feet when your authority enters the room, Samuel," Mark scowled at his slumped posture, and lack of respect. Sam stood, straightened his back, and yelped at the spikes of pain that attacked him.

"Quiet," Mark bit out sharply.

"Sorry, sir," Sam apologized.

"I said quiet," Mark snapped, sending a stray palm into the side of his head. "Or have you already forgotten the rule of 'speak only when you are given permission'? Now, recite the basic exorcism." Sam managed to recite the entire exorcism from memory, with minimal difficulty, and held his breath after, hoping Mark wouldn't find fault with his delivery.

"How do you think you did?" Mark questioned first.

"I think I did good, sir," Sam _prayed _that was the correct answer.

"Well, I think it was both slow and sloppy," _of course._ "On a hunt, stuff like that's going to get you killed. You're too slow reciting an exorcism, and that demon's either gonna get away, or else tear someone wide open. You mispronounce a word, you mess up the entire exorcism. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir," Sam can't help but feel irritated. He had recited that exorcism better than Dean could have, and quite possibly better than his dad even. And he'd done it all by memory. Some of his irritation must have shown on his face, because Mark spoke up again.

"Is there a problem, Samuel?" he raised an eyebrow.

"No," Sam lied.

"What was that?"

"No, sir, there is not a problem, sir," Sam made sure his tone was as sincere as possible. The man was already suspicious.

"That's what I thought," Mark nodded. "Don't worry, the 'sir' will come naturally by the end of the week. Now go into the dining room and eat your lunch."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Sam walked into the dining room, and was surprised to be met with a full plate of food. On the plate was some salad, a pork chop, and a scoop of mashed potatoes. Rather than question the generosity, he sat down, grabbed a fork, and started eating with gusto. It took him fifteen minutes to finish the food, and Mark came in as he was finishing his last bite. He quickly stood at attention.

"Did you enjoy your lunch, Samuel?" Mark wondered.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Sam replied.

"See, what you have to understand is that I am not mistreating you. I'm training you to be a better hunter. Sometimes, hunters go for days without food, waiting out a monster. Any punishment that is dealt to you this week, has a double purpose. First and foremost, it is to teach you how to be respectful, of course. That is your main weakness, and why your father sent you to me. Secondly, though, it is to strengthen you, to set you up for success as a hunter. Now come with me so I can take a look at your back." Sam followed wordlessly, mind swirling with confusion. Why was Mark all of a sudden being so nice? Was there some sort of trap waiting? Maybe he was just waiting for Sam to mess up again, then he would turn and be angry again. Sam wasn't sure, but he was sure he didn't want to find out. Mark led him to a room he hadn't been in before. It was clean, and nearly bare, save for a cabinet, and a small table in the center.

"Go ahead and take your shirt off and lay on the table on your stomach," Mark walked over to the cabinet and opened one of the doors as Sam obeyed. Mark walked back over with a few medical supplies. "This is going to sting a bit," Mark warned, dousing a cloth in rubbing alcohol. He started to wipe down Sam's back, and yeah, it hurt.

"Ah, f***," Sam gasped before he could stop himself.

"Language," Mark's tone was far too nonchalant considering the situation. He finished cleaning Sam's wounds, slathered some kind of cream on them, and then had him stand so that he could wrap his whole chest in bandages. Mark led him outside after the bit of first aid and had him target practice with a bow and arrow. Sam could understand the importance of learning how to shoot a bow and arrow. What he couldn't understand, was how it made sense to practice for three hours straight. He kept quiet, however. There was no way he was inviting a repeat of the morning.

By the time Sam was crawling into bed that night, he was a mess of exhaustion and bitterness. A childish part of him missed Dean. Not an 'oh I haven't seen my brother in a while it sure would be nice to see him I can't wait for the end of the week' type of missing. More like, 'I'm in pain, and Dean always makes it better, and if he was here I wouldn't even be in this much pain.'

Dean always tried hard to not let Sam get hurt. Often it was subconscious. He'd stand just in between Sam and danger, or know just when to pull his punches in a sparring match. Other times it was more direct. _He _was the one to diffuse Dad when he was angry or had been drinking. Their dad would never hurt his sons on purpose, but he tended to err on the side of violence when he was less than sober. One instance that stuck out in Sam's mind was when he was moderately drunk, and he and Sam were arguing. Dean was observing from the sidelines until Dad pushed Sam against the wall. Dean was in between them in an instant, pushing John away, and sending Sam to their room. Sam vaguely remembers Dean harshly demanding their Dad go out and cool off. He must have been pretty convincing, because moments later Dean was in their room checking Sam for injury and reassuring him that he was okay and that Dad wouldn't touch him. If Dean knew what Mark was doing to him, all in the name of training…

Tomorrow was Wednesday, the week was almost half over. Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He'd be just fine. All he had to do was survive three more days of training. Then he could see Dean, and Dean would make it all okay again.


	5. Wednesday

**Thank you so much to all of my dedicated readers! Your kind words and enjoyment of my fic has inspired me to continue writing, and posting! This chapter is kind of short, but the next couple are a bit longer.**

**Warnings: Mark still isn't nice, but he's not quite as awful in this chapter...**

Wednesday morning came with waves of pain and nausea. Sam considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but the stinging welts on his back convinced him otherwise. No need to invoke Mark's wrath this early in the morning. He had slept in his clothes the night before so that he wouldn't have to get dressed that morning, and he was really quite thankful for that as it gave him time to get up slowly and let his head get used to the change of position. He made it to the breakfast table with thirty seconds to spare, ate his slice of bread, drank his glass of water and tried to fight a yawn.

The whole morning seemed to pass in fragments, as if parts of it were skipped over. _He's running, there's a rush of dizziness, firing guns, more dizziness, knife throwing, dizziness. He drops the knife once, and is hit in the back of the head. More dizziness. He's in the middle of pulling back an arrow when his world goes completely dark._

_He rouses to more dizziness and rough hands pulling him to his feet. No sooner are his arms released that he falls to his knees. His stomach clenches, then expels every bit of its meager contents violently. His head throbs and pain jerks its way down his back. He's shivering, and he feels cold, but he seems to be dripping with sweat. Which makes no sense, because cold people don't sweat. Unless the sweat is making him cold or something… Ah, fever, his hazy mind finally supplies. Mark carries him into the house, laying him on a couch in the living room, and his world returns to darkness._

Sam awoke blearily, a dull throbbing resounding through his head. His mouth felt as though it was filled with cotton, and he was laying on something… soft? A couch. He was uncovered and dressed only in his boxers. Someone had removed his shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks, and small bags of ice had been placed strategically around his figure.

"Wha' 'appened?" he wondered aloud.

"Heatstroke and/or dehydration would be my guess," Mark helped him maneuver into a sitting position, and handed him a glass of cool water. "Small sips," he warned.

"Thanks," Sam drank carefully, with just a hint of urgency.

"You'll complete the rest of today's training inside," Mark decided. "I want you to study lore. I've got at least one book on every evil creature that's out there. You'll read every book and take notes. I want to know the name of the monster, what makes it a monster, how to test for it, and how to take it down. Bedtime will be after you've finished. Make sure you're drinking water often while you study, understood?"

"Yes sir, thank you, sir," Sam silently thanked whatever angels were listening. The low-intensity afternoon would be good. He might even wake up tomorrow feeling well-rested.


	6. Thursday

**A/N: Two chapters in one week? Shocking, I know! We've almost made it to the end of the training week, which means we're getting closer toooooo... PROTECTIVE!CARING!DEAN! WOOOO! Trust me, I'm as excited as you guys. I haven't even started writing that part yet, but I'm already so ready for it! If it goes how I hope, it's gonna be real good!**

**Warnings: Some blood, descriptions of first aid, nothing too graphic, but needles**

Remember how Sam had hoped he would feel well-rested in the morning after his low-intensity afternoon? Yeah, right. About that. See he would have felt well-rested had he gotten to bed earlier than 1:00 AM. Turns out, there are a _lot _of monsters out there, some with a _lot _of lore. Some had just a little lore that he'd had to read at least three times to try and find the info he needed. It had taken him far too long to read everything. On the plus side, he was able to drink the most water he'd had in a single day since arriving. His dehydration headache went away, which was nice. Other than the fact that it was replaced in mere hours with a tension headache and a crick in his neck from leaning over confusing texts, some in more than one language even.

He went downstairs for breakfast and found a feast laid out on the table in an empty room. A simple note on the table read "Eat whatever you want, and be at the training ground in 20 minutes". Sam ate cautiously. He at until the emptiness in his stomach subsided, but not quite as much as he wanted. He was not about to give Mark a reason to punish him, and he wasn't sure if eating too much food was considered disrespectful or not.

The training ground was empty, which Sam found strange, if not a little disconcerting. Where was Mark? There was a note there, too. This one said "Be careful, I haven't fed my wendigo in awhile. He's probably very hungry." Sam stared at the note, baffled. Was it some kind of instructions being given to him in code? It obviously wasn't meant to be taken literally, as that would imply that Mark had a wendigo that he had claimed as his. That couldn't be right. No hunter in their right mind would keep a monster alive, much less as some sort of a-a pet. Right?

Sam was suddenly thrust to the ground from behind. He rolled over, just as a long claw tore through the air. His world went black.

The next Sam knew, he was hanging by his ankles in a cave, staring at a stone wall. For a few moments, he frantically wondered how in the world he could have ended up in such a position, and then he remembered. _The note. A wendigo. A real, living, breathing wendigo._ He had been surprise-attacked and hadn't been able to escape unconsciousness. Like all well-trained hunters, Sam's mind switched directly to assessment mode, surroundings first. The cave was dark, but not quite pitch black, so there must have been a source of light somewhere fairly near. The light probably came from an exit, which meant the cave couldn't be too deep. His surroundings were silent, which implied that he was alone. For how long things would stay that way, he had no way of knowing. He refocused his observations to himself. At first, all he registered was _pain, everywhere._ He forced himself to slow down, start with his head, and work his way down to his toes to find the specific spots of pain, trying to guess at what injuries he had where. His head was pulsing, signs of a headache, but nothing more. His chest was on fire, and, after placing his hands on it, he discovered that it was oozing blood sluggishly. His legs and arms seemed fairly unharmed, which meant all he had to do was get free, and he would be more than able to make his escape.

Using a small knife he kept in his back pocket, he knew he could cut the bindings hanging him from the ceiling. The only issue, was getting into a position where he could reach them. With a little determination, and a lot of core strength he didn't know he had, he pulled himself up and began to saw through the rope. It snapped, and he fell to the ground with a rough _thump._ Pain flared throughout his entire being, and his vision went hazy for a moment, but he was free. Now all that was left was to get out of the cave.

He crept toward the light, and was surprised to find that the opening to the cave was closer than he had imagined. The cave opened into a forest, and Sam groaned. He would have to find his way back to the house. It was early fall, and the ground was covered in a layer of leaves. With enough luck, the leaves where Sam had been dragged would be upset, and he could follow that trail back to the training ground. A heavy cloud cover meant he had trouble telling what time of day it was, but at least it wasn't rain- A drop landed on his face just to spite him. The leaves showed a clear trail, however, and Sam cheered inside. At least, he would be able to make it back to the house.

Turns out, Sam was lucky that the trail was so clear considering his vision was blurry ten minutes into his walk. By the time he was stumbling up the steps of Mark's house, he could feel himself starting to pass out. His clothing was soaked through with rain. (It was only drizzling, but being out in the rain falling at any speed for as long as he was would soak a person through.) The house was silent and dark inside. He turned on a light and saw a field first aid kit sitting on the kitchen counter. A note on top of it read "Don't forget to take care of your wounds after a hunt." Wet clothes were most important, to avoid hypothermia. Sam pulled his pants down, and his shirt over his head, cursing softly when it pulled against the gashes on his chest. Alcohol wipes cleaned his chest effectively, although painfully, and he assessed the damage using a small handheld mirror. His chest was still bleeding, and he swallowed harshly at the thought of giving himself stitches. He'd had stitches before, given by his dad or Dean, and he'd stitched both of them up before, but he'd never given himself stitches.

The kit had some thread and a needle, as well as a lighter which he used to sterilize the needle. Once he finished threading the needle, he took a deep breath, inserted the needle into his flesh. White-hot agony seared through his mind and body, and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming out, but he managed to stay relatively quiet, and was finished six stitches later. They were messy, but at least he was no longer bleeding. He smeared and antibiotic cream on the wound, covering it with a gauze pad and tape. Walking into the living room with the first aid kit, he lowered himself down onto a chair, deciding to rest for a moment under a blanket and warm up before taking care of the rest of his body.

He was asleep in less than thirty seconds.


	7. Friday

**A/N: So I know it's been a bit, buuuuut hear me out, this chapter is a long one. It's also the last chapter before Dean and Dad come to pick up Sam.**

**Warnings: Bleeped swear words and child abuse.**

Mark woke Sam up at six the next morning, a small reprieve for his difficulties the day before. To Sam's slight annoyance, Mark gave him no recognition for the work he had done.. Already used to Mark's system, Sam followed every rule to a T. He stood at the table and asked for permission to sit. He asked permission to grab food, asked how much food was his, and waited for Mark to take the first bite before biting into his own portion.

The morning's training took place in an inground pool. One mercy was that the pool was heated, so at least he wasn't freezing the whole time. Chlorine on his many cuts? Not so nice, but at least Mark waterproofed his chest wound.

Honestly, the hardest part of the training, at least at first, was Mark's harsh judgments. He swam too slow, splashed too much, and he should really get his hair cut because it was only going to get in his way as a hunter. Sam flinched a little at that last one.

His hair was the one and only battle with his father that he had ever managed to win. When he was very young, he had been made fun of for having large ears, and so he decided that he would have long hair to keep them covered. That worked for a while, until one weekend during his sixth-grade year, his dad decided he'd finally had enough and cut Sam's hair to a 'decent' length. He came home Monday afternoon with red ears and the remnants of tears on his cheeks. Some eighth-graders had cornered him and laughed at his 'elephant ears'. Their words were emphasized by tugging on his ears. Dad never questioned Sam's hairstyle choices again, and although the man said nothing, Sam found a beanie waiting by his coat the next morning. He left his gratitude as unspoken as his father's apology, but things were much calmer between them for a while after that.

"Take ten," Mark instructed Sam after about an hour of swimming. He was more than happy to oblige, not that he had any fight left in him to disagree with any of the man's orders. As he sat at the edge of the pool, Mark walked over to a cabinet in the pool room and began to pull out some equipment.

"Do you need me to do anything, sir?" Sam felt obligated to ask.

"Just rest," Mark finalized. "Trust me, you're going to need it. Here, eat this while you wait." An apple flew in Sam's direction, and somehow he caught it, biting in immediately and savoring it's sweet, crisp flavor.

"You got something you want to say to me about that apple, Sam?"

"Yes, sir," Sam frantically corrected himself. "Thank you, sir."

"Gratitude is one of life's many virtues," Mark nodded, as if in agreement with himself. Sam resisted the deep-seated teenage urge to roll his eyes. Ten minutes of nothing should have felt like an eternity, but to Sam, it felt too short.

"Put this on," Mark tossed a life vest in Sam's direction. He obeyed, creasing his eyebrows when he realized that the vest wasn't actually created for buoyancy, but was weighted, likely created for lifeguard training or something similar. "Swim ten laps wearing the vest. Each time you reach the deep end, I want you to dive to the bottom, retrieve a ring, and bring it up with you, setting it on the side of the pool. No time limit for this exercise, but no stopping for breaks either."

"Yes, sir," Sam swallowed a bit uneasily, but dove into the water nonetheless. The first couple of laps went pretty smoothly, leaving Sam only moderately tired, but by lap six, his strength was waning. He kept swimming though, unwilling to show defeat, and by the end of lap eight, he felt a second wind. He took advantage of the small burst of energy, knocking out laps eight and nine rather quickly.

It was the dive at the end of lap ten that almost killed him. Literally. In order to conserve energy, he took a deep breath and allowed the weight of his vest to draw him to the bottom. He had the ring in his hands and was swimming back up to the surface, when his left leg cramped. One useless leg, paired with his exhaustion, and the extra weight pulling on his shoulders, made it nearly impossible for him to get anywhere near the surface. Mark watched him thrash, gazing into the water emotionlessly. Lack of oxygen caused Sam to panic, and open his mouth for a breath. Obviously his brain didn't get the memo of _hey, we're underwater, and_ _no, we can't breathe like a fish._ He thrashed more wildly, a fear-induced fog limiting his rational brain. It was as his eyes were drifting closed that he saw a hand reaching through the water towards him. His eyelids slid closed, but rather than the darkness he expected to see, there was a white light. It seemed to pull him in, and although part of his subconscious, that sounded strangely like Dean, was screaming that he stay away and fight it, he gave in, too enraptured by the calming glow and warmth.

* * *

A sweet voice was ringing out, seeming to come from all around Sam. He strained to hear the humming better, and recognized it as a tune he had heard Dean humming often. _Hey Jude._ The Beatles. Dean never chose to listen to the Beatles, preferring other genres. Bands like Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and Motorhead. _Hey Jude _was the one exception. Sam had asked him once why he liked the song so much. All he would say was that it made him feel better.

Now, an angelic voice, one nothing like his brother's, was humming the song. In a way, Sam wanted to feel betrayed. How dare an angel steal his brother's song? All thoughts faded away, when he caught sight of the angel, or was it a ghost? A light shone all around the figure, but her face was unmistakable.

"Mom?" Sam whispered.

"Sammy," she replied softly. "My Sammy. My beautiful boy."

"A-am I dead?" Sam questioned.

"Not exactly," her smile faded. "You are on the road. Technically, if you continued down this path," she gestured to a road running behind her. "You would die. You don't have to, though, you still have the ability to go back the way you came." Sam gazed behind him to see that the road continued on in both directions. She walked closer to him, opening her arms. He entered them hesitantly, unsure of how to react to affection from someone he barely knew. Her touch was gentle, but firm, and Sam melted into it immediately, inhaling deeply. She smelled of lavender and fresh laundry. Tears pooled in Sam's eyes.

"I wish you hadn't left," he cleared his throat. "Dad and Dean both miss you a lot. Dad, he, he doesn't hide it well. I can tell by the way he hunts; obsessively, sometimes. And how he drinks more than usual around the beginning of November. Dean tries his best to hide it. He tries to put up a strong front around me and Dad. Tries not to let his pain show, but I can tell when he's hurting.

"I've never told anybody this," he adds quieter. "But I miss you too. I know it's stupid, that I miss someone I've never really met, and I guess I don't miss _you_ specifically, but I miss my mom. I miss _having _a mom. Mother's days at school are always awkward, because they want us to do projects for our moms, and I don't have a mom to make anything for. I usually just make stuff for Dean instead, and write 'Happy Brother's Day' on them. I get made fun of for it, but that's okay. I'll take any kind of ridicule if it means I can show Dean at least a little how much he means to me," Sam was crying now.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Mary consoled him. "I know you've had it rough. It wasn't fair that I was taken from you all so early, but you all have each other. I know your father isn't always around like he should be, and that Dean ends up being father and mother to you half the time. That's not fair, but Sam, you should know, he loves you unconditionally, and he loves taking care of you. He talks to me a lot at night, and while I can't respond, I listen. He's always so proud of you, and so blessed to have you around. Every time he's away from you, he misses you, and worries about you. He once told me that if he was given the choice between you and anything else in the world, he would choose you, always." Sam was struck speechless. "You have a decision to make, now, Sammy. Which way will you walk down this path?"

"Can't I just stay here with you a little longer?" Sam mumbled.

"The longer you stay here, the path to the living world grows dim," Mary explained. "Soon, it will go completely dark, and you will be trapped forever, left with only the choices of moving on to the afterlife, or becoming a spirit."

"Will I ever see you again?" Sam wondered.

"I hope that you never have to see me again in this life, Sammy," she wiped tears from his cheeks. "But years from now, when you've lived a good, long life, and you're old and grey, we'll find each other again, I promise. And we'll be together, a family. A _complete _family, although I don't see how I could ever be a better mother to you than Dean has been." She smiled, genuinely, just like the picture that Sam had gazed at many times before.

"C-can I, um, do you have a message I can bring back to Dean and Dad?" Sam asked earnestly.

"I wish I could send you away with something, baby," she touched his face tenderly. "But once you reenter the world of the living, you won't remember any of this. The exit is closing, sweetheart," she urged. "You have to go now." She released her hold on him, and he walked down the path, back to where he knew consciousness was waiting. Right at the edge of the pathway, he paused, turning to look at her one last time.

"I love you, mom."

"I love you more, my angel boy." He took a deep breath and stepped off the path.

Sam was falling, although he couldn't figure out why. He also couldn't figure out why everything was dark. He hit the ground suddenly, gasping for air. The next thing he knew, he was coughing harshly, expelling water from his lungs as Mark held his body sideways to ensure none of the water would reenter his lungs. He remembered seeing nothing but a bright light, but somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could hear an angelic voice singing.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_

_Take a sad song and make it better_

_Remember to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better_

* * *

After his near-death experience, Sam had been nearly carried back to the house, dressed warmly, and sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot coffee. In a way, this was more dangerous for Sam than harsh punishment, or reprimand. All it managed to do was to solidify in Sam's mind that Mark was not a monster. That all that the hunter had done throughout the week had been to help Sam. Sam found himself beginning to believe the lies that had been spouted all week. The basic summary went as follows: Samuel Winchester is a disrespectful, disobedient, little brat. Disrespect deserves punishment. The greater the crime the greater the punishment, but all punishment ought to be severe enough to really teach him a lesson.

"You've improved greatly since you got here," Mark commented. "Both in your abilities, and your good behavior. I almost don't want to tell your father about the amount you had to be punished." Sam furrowed his brows in confusion. He had already been planning to tell his dad and Dean the extent of his punishments because he had felt he was being mistreated. His thoughts got no further when Mark continued. "Knowing your father, he would be so disappointed if he knew how much you have been disciplined this week. He wouldn't be able to see past that to the progress you made." Sam thought about Mark's claims. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Mark was correct. "I suppose I could just tell him in vague terms what happened. Then I could emphasize the positives of your stay here. What do you think of that, Sam? Does that sound fair to you?"

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed. "That sounds fair, sir." If Dean, with full knowledge of the week's events, had heard the exchange that had just taken place, he would have most definitely flipped out. Dean, unfortunately, was not here, and Sam was young and naive. All week Mark's words had been like weeds, invasive and quick spreading. And just like weeds, they were doing their best to choke out any of the truth in Sam.

"After lunch, we'll complete your training," Mark explained to Sam. "I'll do what I do with all of my trainees at the end of their stay here- we'll go over what you learned, as kind of a final rehearsal, or conclusion if you will. I have a test put together, specialized just for what you learned this week. Yours will all be verbal response testing. Your father had you well-trained physically when you got here, so most of what I taught you was really just to be more respectful. Any questions about the testing, Sam?" Mark wondered.

"No, sir."

"Good, let's head into the dining room for some lunch."

Lunch was extra special, consisting of pork roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, garden fresh green beans, and apple pie. Mark filled his plate twice, and gave him a generous slice of pie. The pie, Sam had trouble enjoying, mostly because all he could think about while eating it was that he wished Dean were there to enjoy it. At the end of the meal, he sat at the table waiting for instruction.

"Alright, let's begin your test." Mark decided once he had stacked dishes in the center of the table. "The rules are simple. I ask the questions and you answer them. For every question you get right, you get a point. For every question you get wrong, you get no points. The score is out of fifty. You need to get at least seventy-five percent of the questions correct in order to pass the test. If you fail, I will need to talk to your father about some re-training. Basically, what that means is that you would stay here another week, and I would find new, unique ways to help you remember everything. We'll start easy. Recite the basic exorcism."

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta-" _despite being nervous, Sam had no trouble with his recitation.

"Too slow," Mark took notes on a sheet of paper.

"I didn't know that speed counted, sir," Sam defended himself.

"For backtalk, you lose another point automatically,"

"Please, sir, this isn't fair," Sam pleaded.

"Not fair?" Mark raised his eyebrows. "Samuel, life itself is 'not fair'.Do you think that some demon is going to look at you and go 'oh, sorry, I'll slow down so that you have enough time to recite your exorcism. It wouldn't be fair if I used full power right now.'?"

"That isn't what I meant," Sam sighed in exasperation. "I just meant that I deserve to know the rules of a test and the stipulations for getting questions correct."

"Samuel," Mark warned.

"I deserve more instructions," Sam had been trying so hard recently to avoid getting on Mark's bad side, but now he had started down a road he couldn't get away from. "You've done nothing but treat me like s**t all week! I do everything you tell me to. I get up at insane hours in the morning, after little sleep. I've been surviving off of _bird_ food! You literally set loose a live wendigo on my a**. I could have died!"

"Are you finished, Samuel?" Mark waited until Sam took a moment to breathe. His calm voice was a stark contrast to Sam's wild one. Sam deflated instantly.

"Yes, sir," he responded stiffly.

"It would, unfortunately, appear that you have not learned what I tried to teach you all week," Mark took notes onto a piece of paper. "I will talk to your father tomorrow about a week of re-training.

"Please, sir," Sam pleaded. "It was an honest mistake. I shouldn't have argued with you. And I definitely shouldn't have raised my voice at you. I'm very sorry, sir. I won't let it happen again."

"My training program turns out some of the best hunters, Sam," Mark colored his tone condescendingly. "I can't have a subpar trainee going out and sullying my reputation."

"Yes, sir," Sam tried not to think too hard about his family's reaction to the news that he had failed. Dad would be frustrated. He would probably yell and curse a lot, and his reaction would hurt, but not as much as Dean's. The hurt in his eyes. The 'Sammy' he would get, with that tone of voice that says 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.'

"You did, however, apologize without prompting," Mark continued. "A feat that is admirable, and for that, I am willing to give you a second chance."

"Thank you, sir. I'll try not to let you down this time, sir," Sam wasn't about to let this opportunity pass him up.

"I am still going to have to punish you for your actions, of course," he clarified.

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed with him readily. Testing the second time around went much smoother. A lot of the test consisted of questions where he would be provided a scenario and asked what his response ought to be in the situation. _If your father asks you to clean the weapons, but you have an important test to study for, and an essay to write, how do you respond, and what course of action do you take? Who eats the first bite at meals?_ But it was the final question, that Sam missed.

"Alright Samuel, last question," Mark took a drink of water, clearing his throat after. "You're on a hunt with Dean and your father. You take care of the monster, but a civilian has been turned. They haven't hurt anyone yet, and they swear they won't. Your dad says take no chances, kill the thing before it starts killing. Dean says give it the benefit of the doubt. How do you respond?"

"I would say we should give it the benefit of the doubt," Sam ran his fingers through his hair nervously.

"Incorrect," Mark declared. "The correct answer would have been to say nothing. Unless someone asks for your opinion, they don't need to hear it. Your father and brother will be able to find the best course of action together. If they want your opinion, they will ask for it."

"Yes sir," Sam held back a smart retort.

"Congratulations, on passing your final test, Samuel," Mark's face was lit up with almost a fatherly pride, but it felt off, like it didn't belong on his face, or that it was fake. Sam decided not to question it too harshly, though. Any appreciation or pride was better than none at all. Maybe it was selfish, but he found himself longing for someone to compliment him on his hard work. He hadn't realized until they were apart for so long how much he relied on Dean. His dad was never much for compliments, but Dean believed in borderline aggressive support. Even if it was just an A on a math worksheet, Dean made sure he knew that his accomplishments were seen and that he was proud of him.

"Thank you, sir," Sam blinked away moisture that had gathered at the corners of his eyes at the thought of his brother. He could deal with homesickness for a few more hours. He would see his brother soon.

"Now, let's go ahead and take care of your discipline for your disrespect earlier, how does that sound?"

"Thank you, sir," Sam stood straight. Mark began to remove his belt, and Sam inhaled sharply. He tried to focus his thoughts on what Dean would do if he were in the same position. _Dean would stand tall._

"Shirt off." _He would take his shirt off swiftly and silently. _The belt was doubled up. _He wouldn't tremble. _Snap. _He wouldn't make- _snap- _a sound. _Snap. Snap. _He wouldn't cry. _Snap.

Something inside of Sam broke a little, as failure washed over his consciousness. He had failed Dean almost immediately. Already he was bent at the waist under the heavy blows, a stubborn tear trailing down his cheek. Try as he might, he couldn't contain the hiss of breath each strike pulled from his lips or the slight tremor of his muscles that betrayed his fears.

Finally, Mark finished. Sam stood as still as possible, quivering in pain, awaiting instructions.

"At ease, Samuel," Mark's voice was disconcertingly pleasant. "You've learned well this week. You have the rest of today to relax and spend as you please. You're welcome to check out my library. I have a rather large selection of fiction works in addition to the lore and reference books. You will also probably want to start packing, since you leave tomorrow. I'll be in the study if you need me."

"Thank you, sir." Sam headed up to his room, to pack his meager belongings in his duffle bag, and then decided to check out the library. It wasn't long after that, that he was lost in another world, one that, if he was being honest, seemed a lot better than the one he was living in. If only magic wardrobes and doors to other worlds existed. Of course, knowing his family's line of work, they probably do. The "Narnia" they lead to is probably dark and twisted. If his family discovered one, they would probably go in, gank the witch of the world, and then leave without saying goodbye. Just like they did anywhere they went.

That's what his dad believes is best for everyone, and for the first time in his life, Sam agrees with him. Because even if he would rather say goodbye to the good people he meets along the way, or maybe even stay a week or two, his dad knows best. Mark made sure that week that if Sam learned nothing else, at least he learned to follow his authority's instructions no matter what. To put his head down, and deliver 'yes, sirs' promptly and humbly. His dad had spanked him before, but he had never had a reason to beat him like Mark had. Sam hoped to keep it that way.

Sam didn't eat much for dinner that night. His stomach was slightly upset with nervousness. His dad and Dean returned tomorrow. Which was a good thing. As long as Mark held up his end of the bargain to brush over how much he had had to punish Sam throughout the week. Sam wasn't sure if he could bear the disappointment from both Dean and Dad if Mark told them just how difficult he had been to train. Thankfully, Mark chose not to mention his lack of appetite, and dinner was a silent affair. After washing the dishes and being excused, Sam went up to his room and lay on his bed, staring at shapes on the ceiling, dreaming of a new life. One he would create for himself.

See, Sam had a plan. A few cases ago, he'd had a teacher who asked him to come to her classroom during lunch. What she'd had to say had changed his outlook of the future. She wondered what he wanted to do with his life, and told him to forget about his family and what they wanted for him and focus only on his own dream. After a moment he had confessed his desire to go to college. Law school, specifically. As luck would have it, she had been a Stanford alum. He went home that day with his backpack weighed down with a Stanford application, a shining letter of recommendation, and a solid brick of guilt that he was even dreaming of leaving Dean. Or his father for that matter.

He had plans for his future, though. He wasn't going to live like his family did. He was going to meet someone, and they were going to get married and start a family of their own. He was going to be _normal_, and have a _normal_ life.

And yeah, it would hurt a h*** of a lot to leave Dean. And it would probably hurt Dean, too. But more than not being able to bear the thought of leaving his family, Sam couldn't bear the thought of staying.

He had four years left. He would cherish them as best he could. He would be respectful, and careful to obey his dad, and he would spend as much time as possible with Dean.

Tears filled his eyes at the thought of Dean. In just about fourteen hours, they would be together again. Fourteen more hours, and Dean would be here. His arms would open immediately and he would hold Sam tightly in them for as long as Sam wanted.

For now, Sam laid back, and stared at shapes on the ceiling, waiting for sleep to make the time pass quicker.

Waiting for morning.

Waiting for Dean.


	8. Saturday

**A/N: It is the chapter you all have been waiting for! Many many many thanks to my wonderful beta camelcircuit for her wonderful advice and editing. I wrote a good chapter, but she made it great!**

**Warnings: Big warning, I have decided to stop censoring my swearing, so if that kind of thing bothers you, let me know. I'm not opposed to going back to censoring, I just had someone review on one of my fics saying they felt the censoring was unnecessary especially considering the fic's subject matter. Obviously, some child abuse here.**

"Samuel, wake up, your family is here!" Mark called loudly. The room was dark, so it must have been pretty early, which was strange, but Sam got up excitedly. He dressed quickly and ran downstairs, to find Dean and Dad waiting. He ran straight up to Dean, who pushed him off irritatedly.

"Really, Sam?" Dean looked disgusted. "Even after all of that training, you're still a wuss?" Tears stung at Sam's eyes, as he hung his head ashamedly.

"Sam, get in the car," Dad ordered. "I need to talk with Mark about how your week went." Shortly after going outside, Dad and Dean followed. Sam felt his stomach fill with dread. He could tell from the look on his Dad's face that Mark had told him everything.

"Turn around," his Dad commanded.

Sam heard his belt slide out of the loops and he slammed his eyes shut just as the belt hit him.

Sam gasped, sitting straight up in his bed. He tore his blankets off and walked to the bathroom, where he splashed his face with cold water. As droplets dripped down his chin, he stared at his reflection. Was Dean embarrassed to have a clingy little brother like him? Probably. Dean practically swore by the rule of 'no chick-flick moments.' He hated talking about feelings and stuff. As he put it once, in a phrase he definitely must have stolen from Bobby Singer, he didn't want to risk growing lady parts. He let Sam hug him, and even initiated some hugs, and he would let Sam talk about his feelings whenever he felt like he needed to, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted to. Sam swallowed roughly, trying and failing to fight tears. He glared at himself in the mirror. He was disgusting. A weak, pathetic mess. Hunters have to be strong. They don't feel, they bottle up their pain, or use a bottle to wash it away until they can be busy enough to hide it. Weak hunters either die, or are ridiculed to death by other hunters. Sam wiped his face, and mentally gathered all of his emotion, sending it all to the back of his mind. He could be strong, just like his dad. He could be as strong as Dean, and then maybe they would be proud of him. For now, he had a few more hours that he could sleep, and he was going to take advantage of them.

At least, he tried to take advantage of them. Instead, he found himself tossing and turning for three hours, sleeping in thirty-minute intervals, and then Mark was calling up to him to come down for breakfast. On the plus side, Mark let him sleep until seven, giving him extra time to rest. Sam came down and stood at the table. The breakfast conversation was much different from many of the others over the week.

"Good morning, Sam." _It was a morning. Whether or not it was a good one could be heavily debated._

"Good morning, sir."

"You're welcome to sit down." _He didn't have to ask this morning. It's the little things, really._

"Thank you, sir."

"The plate there is yours. If you want more than that, I've got plenty here. A growing teenage boy needs to eat, you know." _Was he not a growing teenage boy the rest of the week?_

"Thank you, sir."

"Your father called. Said he and Dean are on their way and should be here by noon. I'm sure you'll be happy to see them." _Hopefully, they would be just as happy to see him._

"Yes, sir."

"You look a bit tired. Rough night?" _Rough was an understatement._

"Just had a little trouble sleeping is all. Sir."

"How about some coffee? It'll wake you right up. Or I've got green tea if you're not a coffee person." _The coffee, he's sure, is already brewed. The tea?_

"Coffee will be fine, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Cream and sugar?" _Real men drink their coffee straight black. _

"No, thank you. Black is fine, sir."

"Huh, never would have taken you to be the black coffee type." _Really he's a green tea type, but _toe-may-toe tah-mah-toe. _It's all caffeine._

"It's what I was raised on, sir."

"Ah, John and Dean are certainly black coffee people." _They're real men._

"Yes, sir."

"More bacon, Sam?" _Meat, the staple of a hunter's diet. Unless they were eating boxed mac and cheese for the third night in a row because Dad was late coming home and the money had nearly run out and Dean was doing his best to keep me fed, even if it meant skimping on his own bowl- _

"Sam?" _Oh right, the question._

"No, thank you, sir. I've had enough to eat."

"I noticed yesterday you were in the middle of _Prince Caspian._ If you're finished eating, why don't you take your coffee into the study and read some more. I'll take care of the dishes." _He might not be able to focus, but it was worth a try. If anything makes time fly, it's getting lost in another world._

"Thank you, sir."

He curled up in the comfiest chair in the study and searched for his spot in the novel. Where was he? That's right. _Chapter10: The Return of the Lion…_

Falling in love with Narnia was easy. He didn't have to find the evil in every magical creature, some were just, well, magical. And if he was being honest with himself, he saw a lot of similarities between him and Lucy Pevensie. She believed in things and refused to let others dissuade her from her truth. She faced skepticism from her family, even when she brought valuable information to discussions. Not to mention, her unwavering faith in Aslan.

Sam prayed every night before he went to bed. He hadn't told anyone. Not his dad, not even Dean knew. Sam shuddered to think of the ridicule he would face if either of them knew. If they knew that even with his deep knowledge of how much evil _crap_ the world was full of, he still believed in angels. That he still believed in God.

He could relate to Lucy, who was willing to see the good in people before jumping to the conclusion that they were murderous sons of bitches. If only Dad and Dean would listen to him once and awhile. '_Unless someone asks for your opinion, they don't need to hear it. Your father and brother will be able to find the best course of action together. If they want your opinion, they will ask for it.' _

Sam shook himself free of his wandering thoughts and refocused on the book in his hands. Narnia was a fictitious world. Just like every other fictitious world. Real life was different. Eventually, he would have to face the real world, but for now, he allowed himself to be drawn in, through his mind's door. Into the world of talking beasts and magic. _Good _magic. _Friendly _beasts. And best of all, Aslan was tangible; so real, Lucy could embrace him. Maybe that's why she believed so easily. She could rely on more than just faith.

Sam was so engrossed in his reading, he didn't notice the front door open and shut. He did notice the strong baritone of his father's voice greeting Mark, and Dean's equally deep timbre enquiring as to the whereabouts of 'Sammy'.

"Samuel! Come on in to the kitchen," Mark called. "Your family is here." Sam carefully closed the book and returned it to its proper place on the bookshelf before stretching and heading out to the kitchen. Once there, he stood stiffly.

"At ease, Samuel," Mark laughed a little, as if Sam was crazy for standing at attention. He relaxed a little. Sam looked over his family. Dad looked the same as always. Dean too, except two of the fingers on his left hand were taped together. He must have noticed Sam looking, because he smirked.

"You should've seen the other guy," Dean remarked.

"What, you mean the tree you jammed your finger in trying to pitch a tent?" Dad quipped lightly.

"Oh, come on, Dad, it was supposed to be cool," Dean whined, though he was still smiling.

"Are you saying that you would blatantly _lie_ to your own brother just so that he thinks you're cool?" Sam stood silently, letting the light banter fill his ears. Honestly, they could have been talking about car engines and he would have loved listening to it. He had missed their voices so much.

"Sammy doesn't think I'm cool, he _knows_ I'm cool," Dean retorted smoothly. "Isn't that right Sammy?"

"Yes, sir," Sam responded automatically.

"Hey, Dad, listen to that," Dean's smile grew larger. "He's even calling me 'sir' now."

"Don't let it go to your head, son," Dad shook his head fondly.

"Samuel, why don't you take your brother out to the shooting range and show him some of the work we did with your archery while I talk to your father about your week here."

"Yes, sir," Sam obeyed immediately. Dean followed him out to the range, neither of them speaking along the way. Once they arrived, though, Dean looked at Sam.

"Really, Sam?" _Even after all of that training, you're still a wuss? _"We've been with each other for at least ten minutes, and you have yet to hug me. Did you really have so much fun here that you didn't even miss me?"

"Wh-what? N-no. Of course not," Sam stammered. "I just wasn't sure if-"

"What, if I wanted a hug from you?" Dean saved him from having to finish. "Aw, come on little bro, get in here." He opened his arms, and despite everything Sam had told himself about being a man and controlling his emotions, he found himself slamming into his brother's chest with tears already beginning to well in his eyes. Dean's strong embrace grounded him, and broke his already cracking wall against a tide of emotion. Soon, he was openly sobbing against his brother.

"Hey, Sammy, hey, what's wrong?" Dean gently questioned, his arms tightening around Sam. "You're kinda scaring me here."

"I-I just- I really missed you," Sam spoke in between shuddering breaths.

"I missed you too bud," Dean never broke his hold.

"A-and I wanted so badly to be strong, but now I went and made an ass of myself, and you probably think I'm a pathetic mess. Gah, I'm such an idiot. I'm just embarrassing myself and-"

"Hey!" Dean's voice was just loud enough to be heard over Sam's rambling, and held no bite or malice in its tone, but was effective in shutting Sam up. "I told you, I missed you too."

"Yeah, but-"

"No. Let me finish first, okay? Just 'cause I don't cry or whatever doesn't make you weak 'cause you do, alright? So if someone tried to tell you that, give me their name and I'll kick the crap outta them. Seriously, though. It's okay to have emotions. Crying's probably healthier than bottling it all up anyway." Dean broke apart their hug to push Sam back and look in his eyes. "You cry all you need to, okay?"

"Okay," Sam sniffed.

"I'm serious," Dean reiterated. "Cry on my shoulder, 'cause that's what I'm here for. Got it, bitch?"

"Sure, Jerk," Sam laughed a little. Dean pulled him back in to draw their hug out a little longer. Sam inhaled deeply and sighed. Leather, car oil, gunpowder, and a hint of that cologne Dad got him when he turned 18. He smelled like, like _Dean_, and Sam was enjoying every moment of it. True to his word, Dean held Sam until he had stopped crying completely, and pulled away to dry his face off.

"You gonna show me some of your sharpshooting skills or not?" Dean poked his side playfully. Sam shot five arrows, all of them into the center of the target, and Dean _praised _him for it. He cared that Sam could shoot accurately, and precisely, and saw all of the hard work Sam had put into improving his aim.

"I bet you could outshoot Dad and me combined!" Dean spoke with pride. "How far away is that target, anyway?"

"Twenty feet," Came Mark's voice from behind them, startling Sam, who turned to see his dad standing next to Mark.

"That's pretty good, Sam," Dad commented, in a rare moment of pride. "Looks like this trip wasn't a total waste. I guess you learned something after all." _The trip wasn't a total waste? Did he mean that it was mostly a waste then? Had Mark told him everything, despite his promise?_

"Of course, John," Mark smiled. "It's like I told you inside, Samuel here has made significant progress. He's of course much better behaved, but I think you'll find he's also got some honed skills up his sleeve."

"Well, thank you, Mark," he responded, holding his hand out for the other hunter to shake. The gesture was reciprocated. "I really appreciate the time you've taken with my boy here. I'm indebted to you. If you ever need anything, feel free to give me a call. I'll be out here in no time."

"I appreciate that," Mark nodded. "And as for you, Sam's always welcome to come by for more training. Dean too." Sam tensed minutely.

"Thanks for the offer," Dad replied. "I'm sure we won't have any reason for more training, especially in the near future. Isn't that right, Sam?

"Yes, sir," Sam responded promptly.

"That's what I like to hear," John nodded. "I suppose we ought to head on out of here."

"I figured you all would be pretty anxious to get out on the road," Mark spoke as they all headed back toward the house. "I went ahead and packed some sandwiches and such for your journey. I've been on the road enough to know how mundane greasy spoon diner food can get. Thought something fresh would be a nice change." He and John continued to trade dialogue, but Sam allowed the noise to fade into the background. He was ready to leave, and honestly? If he never heard Mark Reed's voice another day of his life, he would just be that much happier for it.

In no time at all, Sam was sitting in the backseat of the Impala as it drove down the road. It was interesting, he mused to himself. His position mirrored the position he had been in just a week ago, save a couple of key details. One: he was heading away from what he now knew for sure was the worst week of his life. And two: he was prepared to hold himself precariously on a tightrope. One where he was careful not to do or say the wrong thing.

After a bit of begging, Dean finally convinced Dad to let him put in his favorite tape. Sam closed his eyes, leaning against the window as the music filled the space of the car.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_

_Take a sad song and make it better_

_Remember to let her into your heart_

_Then you can start to make it better_

As the familiar vocals washed over Sam, he found himself succumbing to his utter exhaustion stemming from a combination of the week, and his most recent restless night. In no time at all, everything began to fade away, and Sam entered the sweet bliss of nothing.


	9. Sick or Tired?

**I have no good excuse for the wait, just an apology. Sorry. lol, for real though, I'm super sorry it took this long to get this out to you all, but I hope you enjoy!**

Dean kept his promise and was laying next to Sam the next morning. Sam blearily gazed at the clock next to their bed, almost panicking when he realized the numbers read 5:30 AM. He quickly remembered that he was not at Mark's, and didn't have to be up at a certain time in the morning. If his dad had wanted him up, he would have said something the night before. Dean was still asleep, and snoring lightly, but their dad was sitting at the small table in the room, cleaning guns. Sam sat up to go over to him grimacing when the room spun a bit.

He stood next to the table, back straight, arms at his side.

"Good morning, sir," he greeted his father.

"Morning, Sam,' he replied without looking up from his work. "Why don't you have a seat. I've got some things I'd like to talk with you about."

"Yes sir," Sam sank heavily into the chair across from his father.

"In speaking with Mark yesterday, I learned that most young people benefit from solid structure in their life. Unfortunately, I can't give you the structure of a stable place of living, you understand why, of course. He did say that a strong daily routine is helpful, even if it's only the first three hours of your day. Therefore, from now on, your routine will consist of waking up at 6 AM, exercising for one hour, showering and eating, and then either studying, researching, or caring for equipment. Does that all make sense to you?"

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed readily. He had to admit, it did feel better, having the structure laid out so specifically. It seemed as though his father actually wanted to make things better for all of them.

"Go get your brother up, and then both of you get ready to go. I want us heading out of here in half an hour," Dad instructed.

"Yes, sir," Sam did as he was told, and in no time they were in the car headed for a case somewhere.

Dad talked on the way about what they were dealing with. Dean inserted questions and commentary throughout, while Sam stayed silent. What he gleaned from listening was that they were headed into the mountains of Oregon to a small hiking trail where hikers had reportedly gone missing with no trace. Police were saying that they could be dealing with one or more kidnappers until recently the bodies were discovered in a cave. All of them had been murdered very graphically, and now the police were searching for a serial killer. They would keep an open mind, of course, and wouldn't know for sure until they saw the bodies, but Dad was thinking either a werewolf or, Sam shuddered a little, a wendigo. Around noon, they stopped at a small roadside diner.

"Hey darlin', what can I get started for ya?" A waitress greeted them at their table. Her name tag read Margaret, and she looked to be in her mid-forties.

"Three of your classic burgers with fries, please," Dad smiled.

"Of course," she took note of their order and left to bring it to the kitchen. Sam sat with his chin resting on his hand, resisting the urge to lay his head down on the table and take a nap.

"Sam, why don't you tell Dean and I some of the things you did at Mark's," Dad looked over at Sam. "It looked like he had a pretty nice facility set up." Sam blinked his eyes slowly as his dad's words began to blur together and fade into the background. He was jolted back to reality with a sharp flick to his arm by Dean.

"Falling asleep on us Sammy?" Dean smirked playfully.

"Sorry," Sam sat up straighter. "Um, what was it you asked, sir?" He turned toward his dad.

"Just wanted to hear about some of the stuff you got to do at Mark's," he repeated. Luckily he didn't seem upset that Sam had ignored him.

"Oh. I did some target practice, and some, um, swimming exercises. I learned some hand to hand combat stuff. I practiced first aid a little bit," his voice trailed off, as he remembered how it had felt having to stitch his own chest closed.

"That's great!" Dean sounded excited. "Man, I wish I could have been there. Sounds like it was a lot of fun!"

"It wasn't," Sam spoke without really thinking. Dean acted as though he hadn't even heard him.

"Dad, we should do some hand to hand stuff! I bet I could beat Sammy hands down."

"Calm down, Dean," John gazed at his eldest son sternly. "Let Sam talk." Dean had the decency to look apologetic. Sam was saved from having to say more as Margaret walked up to the table with their burgers.

"All right, three classics and two chocolate shakes on the house because your boys are just so darn cute," she smiled. "Enjoy, and if there's anything you need, just give me a holler."

"Thanks," John nodded, then turned toward his sons. "Eat up both of you. I want to be back on the road in thirty."

"Yessir," they responded in tandem, then started eating. Dean fell to eating his burger as though he hadn't eaten in weeks, which was typical of him. Sam ate slower, starting with a couple of fries. As soon as the grease-laden potatoes were in his mouth, he felt his stomach twist in disgust. Diner food was the worst. This diner must have been worse than others because it wasn't long before his stomach was churning. He excused himself to the restroom, where he proceeded to lose his lunch and breakfast. He returned to the table, paler than usual, and shaking minutely. Wanting to keep up appearances, he continued to pick at his food, eating bits and pieces, and trying to ignore the unpleasant lingering discomfort. Dad hadn't seemed to notice, but Dean was giving him plenty of side glances. When their dad left to use the restroom, Dean confronted him.

"Why aren't you eating?" he wondered.

"I am," Sam lied.

"No, you're picking," Dean retorted. "And you only pick when you're sick or upset. So what's going on?"

"I hate greasy diner food," Sam frowned.

"You'll still eat it when you're hungry," Dean's tone spoke volumes of how little of Sam's crap he was willing to deal with.

"Well, I'm not very hungry, either," Sam grumbled.

"You're pale, too," Dean gazed at him in concern. "Are you sick or somethin'?" John walked back up to the table.

"All right boys," he announced. "Let's get going." If Sam had been worried about his dad noticing his lack of appetite, it seemed he had nothing to worry about. John's mind was too preoccupied with the upcoming hunt to notice whether or not his sons ate food.

"May I use the restroom before we leave, sir?" Sam asked.

"Make it quick, and meet us at the car," Dad nodded. When Sam came out of the restroom, Margaret was clearing their table. She saw Sam walking past and stopped him.

"Are you all right, honey?" She asked softly. "You barely ate, and you seem a little pale."

"I'm fine," came his reply.

"I've got some nice hot chicken noodle soup in the back," she gazed at him. "I can get you a bowl to go, no charge."

"No thank you," he ducked his head in embarrassment. "I'm okay. I have to get out to the car. My dad and Dean are waiting." She grabbed her order pad, wrote something on the front sheet, and tore it off, handing it to Sam.

"That's my number, hon," she smiled. "Call anytime."

"Um, thanks," he replied, awkwardly. "I, uh, I have to go now, so," without saying anything else, he left the restaurant, shoving the paper into his pant's pocket. Luckily nobody said anything about how long he was in the bathroom, and he silently buckled himself into the backseat. The motion of the car combined with the lull of deep voices coming from the front seat had Sam falling asleep almost instantly.

* * *

The stopping of the car jarred Sam to alertness. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and he was uncomfortably warm.

"What time 'sit?" Sam wondered hoarsely.

"Time to get up, Sammy," Dean snarked playfully.

At the same time, Dad said, "Six o'clock." They were stopped in a motel parking lot.

"I'll go get us a room," John said. "You both start unpacking the car." He got out, passing his keys to Dean who went around to the trunk. Sam slowly extracted himself from the back of the Impala, trying to ignore the dull throbbing of his back and head. Dean already had their bags out of the car and was double-checking the security of the false bottom by the time Sam made it over. He tossed a water bottle at Sam, who caught it, gazing in mild confusion.

"We stopped for gas about an hour back," Dean explained. "You barely stirred, but I figured you'd be thirsty once you actually woke up." Sam cracked open the bottle, and before long it was half empty.

"Thanks," Sam gasped, breathing heavily.

"Sure, now come on let's get this crap inside before Dad gets impatient."

"Yeah, okay." Sam agreed.

"Oh, and for the record, I still think you're sick," Dean raised his eyebrows as if challenging Sam to disagree.

"I'm just tired," Sam protested. He turned and started walking to the motel without waiting for a response. They met up with Dad by the front desk.

"Thanks for getting the bags, boys," he smiled. "Let's go get settled in so we can get an early start tomorrow." They were unlocking the door to their room when a door opened down the hallway and a man exited a room. He came walking towards them, stopping a few feet from their door.

"John Winchester?" he questioned gruffly.

"It's Bobby!" Dean grinned. Needless to say, Bobby followed them into their room to summarize what he had learned about the case so far.

"I'm gonna give you all a summary, and nobody's gonna say a word until I'm finished, got it?" Even John nodded silently. "We got four bodies, all found strung up in a cave, one was still alive, barely. I talked to him in the hospital, and he said he wasn't sure who, or what dragged him away, but that one of the guys was still alive when he woke up, and they said it looked like a monster. Naturally, he told me the other guy was probably delirious and imagining things. I left it at that, and went to the coroners to examine the other bodies. Hearts were intact, they basically died of hunger. Although they also had some unexplained lacerations. I did some checking of town history and found that this has been happening every few years. In summary, get your flame torches guys, we're dealing with a wendigo."

"That's about what we figured," John nodded. "If I'd have known you were gonna be here, I would have found a different hunt. Since we're here we might as well go in together."

"I suppose, as long as you don't mess it up," Bobby snarked. It may have been a joke, but there was enough truth behind it to shift the atmosphere in the room leaving a lingering discomfort.

"Well, I don't know about you guys," Dean inserted. "But I'm hungry."

"I was headed to pick myself up some pizza before I ran into you yahoos," Bobby grumbled. John glanced around the room, his eyes hesitating on Sam for a moment.

"I'll go get the pizza," he volunteered, his eyes shifting to rest on Bobby. "That way Sam and Dean can get settled."

"What, you want me to babysit your boys while you go for a drive?" Bobby sounded grumpy, but anyone who knew him would be able to see through his act.

"I'll be back in a little while," John left the room, and a silence descended over it for a moment.

"What are you all sittin' around for?" Bobby questioned. "Get settled!" His command sparked the boys into action, and in a few minutes, they had organized the room. Sam sat on the edge of one of the beds gazing down at his hands as though they were the most interesting thing he'd seen all day. He felt warm and a bit nauseous as he had most of the day, and his chest felt irritated. Dean and Bobby were talking, Dean telling him all about some hunt that he'd had a big part in solving. Bobby looked proud as Dean reminisced the moment of adrenaline as he'd shot the monster moments before it would have clawed their dad. Sam found himself wondering how Dean could be so excited about killing something. Once Dean had finished his story, Bobby turned to Sam.

"Read any good books recently, Sam?" he asked.

"I started the Chronicles of Narnia series at Mark's," Sam responded after a hesitation, the question catching him off guard.

"Who's Mark?" Bobby lowered his eyebrows in confusion.

"Uh, Mark Reed," Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "He's a hunting trainer. An old Marine pal of my dad's. Dad sent me to his place for a week to get in some extra training." Bobby looked upset for some reason.

"Well did you learn anything good?" he wondered after a moment's pause.

"I guess," Sam shrugged. He flinched when the door opened, and although he wasn't sure, it almost looked like Bobby had noticed. Dad came in carrying three pizza boxes.

"Anybody order pizza?" he called with a rare, genuine smile on his face. "I've got a large meat-lovers, a large cowboy, and a small veggie something-or-other for Sam." It was rare for Dad to buy a special order that catered to Sam's appreciation of vegetables, and Sam wondered what prompted him to this time.

"Thank goodness you're back," Dean called. "I was withering away over here."

"I'm sure that's not the case, son," John shook his head fondly. He walked over and set the pizza boxes on the small table in the room. "Bobby, you can go ahead and get your pizza first."

"What, am I your guest or something?" Bobby rolled his eyes, but went to dish up his pizza anyway. Soon they all had pizza, and there was silence in the room. There's nothing quite like food to shut up a group of hunters. Sam ate slowly, still worried about his stomach. He was halfway through his second piece when he felt an unpleasant rumbling. At this point, it was almost normal.

"May I go to the bathroom, sir?" Sam asked his father.

"Why are you asking me?" John wondered. "It's not like we're having a formal dinner or something. Go if you need to, I don't care."

"Yes, sir," Sam entered the small bathroom, turning on the fan and locking the door. He leaned over the toilet, breathing thickly. Maybe, he thought, it was finally time to admit to Dean that he was sick. His stomach gave an awful lurch, and then his pizza finally made its reappearance. He stayed in the bathroom for probably fifteen minutes trembling with chills, waiting for his nausea to pass. Once they had, he stood up, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. When he left the bathroom, Dean was glaring at him.

"I tried, Sammy," he called. "I really tried. I wanted to give you a chance to be independent or whatever, but you look like crap."

"Gee, thanks Dean," Sam pouted.

"You're sick," Dean deadpanned. "Go lay down."

"I'm not sick," Sam protested uselessly. "I'm just tired."

"Yeah, sure," Dean looked unamused. "You're tired even though you slept the whole ride here."

"Sam doesn't look that bad to me," John spoke up.

"Oh shut up John," Bobby entered the fray. "You wouldn't know what either of your kids looks like sick because you're never around them long enough to know!"

"I resent that," John stood up. "I'm with my kids as often as I can be! The only time I'm away from them is when I go on a solo hunt, which rarely happens now that Sam's old enough to hunt."

"Really? What about every time a hunt goes bad and you drown yourself in whiskey at the nearest dive bar? Or when you think you're close to finding the sonuvabitch that killed your wife and you dump your kids off at my place? Not that I mind having your boys, mind you. Your boys are wonderful, not that you would know that."

"That doesn't happen very often and you know it," John called out defensively.

"Yeah, well, even when you're with your kids you're never really with them," Bobby growled. "Beyond that, didn't you just ditch Sam at some old Marine buddy's house?"

"I took Sam to Mark Reed's for some extra training that I was unqualified to give," John explained.

"I've heard stories about Mark Reed," Bobby's tone carried a warning "I've heard he's crazy."

"He fought alongside me in 'Nam," John scowled. "He's not crazy. He was the best damn soldier in our platoon."

"Was," Bobby emphasized. "He was a great soldier until he lost his wife to a werewolf. Then he became a great hunter. Now, I've only heard stories from other hunters, but from what I know, he lost his son about three years ago and hasn't been the same since. He's obsessed with training other hunters' kids to avoid them falling victim like his own son did. Which would be great, but from what I hear, he believes the reason his son died is because he was too soft on him. All the stories I hear paint him to be aggressive, harsh, and unforgiving. Some of them even imply abuse, though no one's said anything of the sort plainly."

"Sam's said nothing about-"

"Oh, like he would tell you," Bobby growled. "He probably feels like if he tells you he was being abused that somehow you'll turn it around and make it his fault! You'll say something like 'you should have fought back'. 'Oh, Bobby, why do you think I would say that?' You ask. It's because you're an idiot, John. You're an idiot, and a fool, and a shit father," Bobby finalized, breathing heavily. John looked livid. He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Bobby turned to Sam and Dean. Apparently, during their argument, both men had failed to notice Sam having a panic attack. Dean was on his knees in front of his brother, holding Sam's hands to his chest and instructing him to breathe slowly. After about thirty seconds, Sam let go of Dean's hands and collapsed back onto the bed in exhaustion. His face was streaked with tears, and his forehead shimmered with sweat. Bobby would have checked for a fever if it weren't for the fact that Dean already was.

"Okay, bud," Dean spoke softly. "Let's get you out of this wet shirt and into a dry one." He started to remove his brother's shirt, but Sam fought him.

"No, Dean," Sam protested. "You can't take it off. Please."

"I have to," Dean would plead if he had to, Bobby knew. "Come on. It's not like Bobby hasn't seen you without a shirt on dude."

"But if you take it off, then you'll see," Sam sniffed.

"See what?" Dean looked concerned now. "What am I going to see, Sam?"

"How bad I was."

"Nothing you show me is going to make me love you any less," Dean promised. Had his brother been hurting himself?

"O-okay," Sam relented. "But you have to promise you won't tell Dad."

Dean promised readily, partly because it would allow him to get his brother's shirt off, but mostly because he wasn't going to tell their dad anyway. He wasn't expecting the horrors beneath the shirt. His back was an array of bruises and stripes, and his chest was covered in a large white bandage. Dean moved to take the bandage off and was surprised to encounter no reaction from Sam. His brother looked as though he'd given up fighting, and was laid back with his eyes closed, tears leaking down his cheeks from beneath his eyelids. Underneath the bandage, Sam's chest was stitched together crudely, and Dean found himself wondering who the amateur was that had done it.

"What happened?" Dean tried to ignore the crack of his voice.

"Which part?" Sam might have been joking if it weren't for the gravity of the situation. As it was, he just sounded resigned.

"Uh, let's start with your chest," Dean glanced over to Bobby as if looking for guidance. Bobby's shrug was less than comforting.

"Wendigo." Sam's answer was so calm the meaning took a second to register.

"You fought a Wendigo?"

"It was a training exercise. It got the drop on me though, so I had to escape out of its cave. It wasn't too hard to find the house again, and there was a first aid kit waiting there for me, so I was able to stitch myself up."

"I'm sorry, you stitched yourself up?!" Sam didn't reply, and his face was twisted into a grimace.

"Ask these questions later," Bobby suggested. "I think right now, we've got other, more pressing issues." Dean chose not to respond verbally and turned to walk into the bathroom to retrieve a cool, damp washcloth. His jaw was wound tight, but he was very gentle as he wiped down his brother's forehead and chest. Under his ministrations, Sam fell asleep almost instantly.

"I'm gonna kill that piece of shit," Dean growled lowly.

"Not without me," Bobby added. "Move aside for a minute so I can look at your brother's chest." There was a flicker of protective hesitation on Dean's part before he reluctantly moved aside and allowed the older man to move in closer.

"Idjit," Bobby muttered, shaking his head in exasperation. "He hasn't been taking care of it, so now it's starting to get infected," Bobby complained to Dean. "Gimme a minute to get my first aid kit. I swear you damn idjits will be the death of me one day. Thoght I raised you both better than to not take care of an injury." When he returned, he pulled out a large bottle of rubbing alcohol. His face was grim as he unscrewed the cap.

"Dean, you're gonna have to be ready to hold him down," Bobby instructed. "This is gonna hurt like one son of a bitch."

Neither of them could have prepared for the reaction that came when they started to clean his chest.


End file.
